Lockwood & Co, Short Stories
by Nemaides
Summary: Believe it or not, I used to be friends with that Anthony Lockwood . . . (previously titled A.J Lockwood and Company, Paranormal Investigators).
1. Quill Kipps

**Quill Kipps**

Believe it or not, I used to be friends with bloody Anthony Lockwood.

We lived on the same street yet attended different schools: I, a high level private school a few blocks away, and Anthony a large public school twice the distance. I hardly ever left the house, being . . . what you would call a homebody . . . but on the occasions that I did, I chose the sunny days. Cold weather gnawed at my bones.

"What are you doing?"

I scrubbed at the chalk drawing, smearing it with my finger so it was too blurred to tell the actual image, and sprang to my feet. There was a boy standing across from me, around the same seven years of age that I was, and his eyes were fixated over my shoulder onto the drawing. I felt a sudden flash of hot anger. "Were you _spying _on me?"

The boy jammed his hands into his pockets and shrugged, smiling brightly. "Not spying, exactly."

"Then what?" I demanded, crouching back down and reaching into the box of chalk. Why couldn't he just leave me alone?

"I live a few blocks down," the boy said in answer. "And I saw you. I wanted to say hello, I guess." Again, that irritatingly bright smile.

"Say it, then." I demanded. I hardly knew what I was doing, never having had held a long conversation with a child my own age before. Anthony's smile grew.

"Hello?"

"Now what?"

"I'm not sure. Adults make it seem so easy, don't they?" All of a sudden he was squatting beside me, sleeves rolled up, eyebrows raised and hand poised questioningly over the chalk box. I shrugged, trying not to act as if I cared that much.

Hopefully he'd go away soon.

He didn't.

"I'm Anthony, by the way," the boy said a few minutes later. He'd already made a rough sketch of a dragon. "You?"

"Quill Kipps."

"Quill like on a porcupine?" Anthony asked in amusement. "That's very—"

"Don't." A bold feeling overtook me as I scowled and grabbed another piece of chalk. Maybe he was affecting me, that bright personality of his. How could anyone be so outgoing? It was strange. "Don't tease me about it."

"I won't. Sorry." He had stopped drawing and was instead watching me make the rough outline of a ghost. "It's—hey, that's not right!"

I stopped drawing. Anthony prodded the ghost with his forefinger. "Ghosts don't really look like that," he insisted. "They're not white sheets. They look like real people, only . . . trans—transportation? No, transparent. See-through," he clarified to my bewildered expression.

I scuffed out the drawing, cheeks red. So he knew everything about ghosts, did he? Figures. "You've seen one before, then. A Visitor." I didn't bother putting it into a question.

"Yeah," Anthony replied nonchalantly. "My mother works as a Fittes agent, so—wait, haven't you seen one?"

I paused, my tongue already wrapping itself around a lie—then I squeezed the chalk in my hand so hard it popped out onto the sidewalk. "Never," I admitted. The chalk began rolling away and I grabbed it before it could hit his foot; Anthony was too stricken to notice.

"_Never? _What, have you been stuck up in your house all these years?" The boy blinked at me in surprise. "Visitors are everywhere." Something flashed in his eyes, an expression I couldn't put my finger on, and Anthony Lockwood grinned. "Hey. You want to see one?"

"S-see one?" I stammered. Was he crazy? Who'd want to see a Visitor? _This boy, _a voice whispered in my head. _And everyone else, probably. You're just too much of a coward to—_I blocked it out. "A ghost?" I said, dumbfound.

"Yes." This boy, a stranger I hardly knew, was beaming harder than the sun as he pushed me gently to the door. "Ask your mum and dad if you can come over to my house tonight, and I'll show you." Our feet crunched on the trimmed lawn.

I darted a glance up at my house; cold and forbidding, the darkened windows glowered back at me. Cold, forbidding, and _empty. _"My parents aren't home," I hissed, as I jerked away and stood on one of the porch steps. "They're out on a trip."

"Are you by yourself?" Anthony asked disbelievingly. "You're only . . . what . . . six?"

"Seven. As old as you," I snapped. "Don't be _patronizing." _A word I had picked up from my parents and the countless books I spent my time on while huddled inside the house.

"I'm eight," the boy said in exasperation. "You said you're seven, Quill? I'm older." He said it with a degree of satisfaction, as if it made him better than me or something. I scowled, and then reconsidered.

"But . . ." Embarrassed, I waved my hand to indicate his height; Anthony was shorter than me by a good inch, and I wasn't exactly the tallest child in my class. "You are . . . you know . . ."

"Short?" Anthony said glumly. It was his turn to look embarrassed. "My parents say I still have time to grow."

I smirked without thinking. "Better grow soon, then."

Anthony didn't look hurt, though; he merely shrugged and stared at the front door, which was partially agape since I had slipped outdoors. "Is there anyone home?"

"My nanny. She's probably asleep, though." I noticed Anthony's interested look as he glanced at the crack again; I moved my foot and the door shut quietly. "And she might get in trouble if she lets me see ghosts," I explained hastily. "My parents are strict."

_Why are you lying, Quill? Just admit that you're scared. Coward, _the voice sneered. Inside my jacket pockets, my fists clenched. Yes, I was a coward. Even at age seven, I knew it . . . because it was the truth. _Why don't you tell Anthony, then? _The voice chided.

I don't want to scare him off. Who wants to be . . . _friends . . . _with a coward?

Did I want a friend?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Four years later **

"It's a stupid move and you know it, Tanner."

Mo Tanner scowled at Anthony Lockwood from his place outside the sewer. "Who's leader, Anthony, me or you?" He pretended to think for a moment, and then leaned forward, brown teeth widened in a forced grin, and snarled, "_Me." _

"It doesn't mean it's the smartest thing to do." Anthony didn't back down, instead taking a step forward so that he and Tanner were face-to-face. He'd grown since we'd first met, and could now easily look any boy his age in the eye. Not that it was always good, though. From my place beside the sewer hole, I grimly watched the verbal fight take place. These challenges of Anthony's to Tanner's orders were becoming more and more frequent as the days passed. Why couldn't he just leave it be?

"Shut up, Anthony, and let's get this over with," I said impatiently. Anthony didn't bother looking at me; he just continued staring Tanner in the eye.

"We're sending Melinda and Wonseo in there by _themselves._ While we wait out here. That's the plan?" Anthony spat. "It's idiotic." His normally calm demeanor had been replaced by a simmering anger. Startled by his sudden fury, I snapped my mouth shut.

"They're our most veteran agents," Tanner soothed at first; his eyes glinted oddly. Melinda and Wonseo glanced at us uncertainly, their faces flickering with what seemed like . . . fear? . . . before obeying Tanner's waving hands and proceeding into the sewer. They disappeared into the gloom, and I swallowed hard. Hopefully they'd make it back out.

"Plus, you and Kipps over there completely fumbled our last case. This is your, let's say, _punishment." _Tanner turned back to Anthony and raised his thick eyebrows.

"The ghost got the kid before we could do anything!" Anthony snarled, but you could see that the barb had got to him.

Our last case . . . Anthony and I had had the ghost, ready to trap it with the silver net, and then the client had _come tramping back into the house _because he had forgotten his infant's diaper kit. The ghost had turned, swept across the room, and latched onto the child before the father had even pulled out the baby powder. We'd almost been closed down as a team for that event. Tanner had been furious, Anthony shocked. I'd had my hands full staying out of reach from Tanner, who's fists were ready to fly, and Anthony, who had wanted to mope on me and rant about the loss of life until I was ready to gag, to really be concerned about the baby.

"So we just wait here." Anthony threw me a look, and I straightened my posture on the brick wall. Another look, and I reluctantly peeled myself away and stood beside him. Couldn't he see that I didn't want to be included in this argument? Bloody Anthony Lockwood.

In the Fittes dormitory that we shared, he had spoken to me by night, for countless nights, about leaving the company and starting an agency of our own. Lockwood and Kipps, we would call it.

I'd never voiced to him my desire to stay. He'd never understand. Fittes was like my home, whereas to him it was a confining prison that he would move out of any day now. It didn't help that his mother was complaining about it at home, too (or so he had told me).

"They'll be back soon enough," I said shiftily, not meeting either of their eyes. "We can go in if they need help." Lockwood snorted disbelievingly. Tanner grunted and strode away, checking his watch and scribbling something down on a pad.

A minute ticked by, and I swatted at the bugs that landed on my arm. The sun had long since gone down, and we were standing by the light of the moon in a tall grassy field beside a sewer. Not the best of locations, especially considering the smell, but at least . . . I frowned up at the sky. At least there wasn't much action going on.

_Still a coward, then? _That familiar voice snickered.

_Always have been, _I agreed.

_Lockwood should do as he says and just leave. Fittes would be better off without him. _You _would be better off without him._

_He helped me get this spot on the team. Of course I wouldn't, _I insisted, scrubbing my toe at a piece of scruffy grass.

_If you keep siding with Lockwood against Tanner like this, you could easily get kicked off with him when Tanner finally blows. Tell me, do you want that? _

I didn't.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Two weeks later**

"I haven't seen you around here for a while, Quill," Anthony's mother said reprovingly. Seated on Lockwood's front porch, I accepted the glass of iced tea she held out with a muttered "thanks."

"We've been busy," Anthony said, but he was grinning as he nudged me in the side. "Or . . . maybe not for a while now, eh, Quill? We're free! We can do what we want . . . _finally_ . . ."

"Fittes isn't that bad, Tony," his mother chided, but she had a slight smile on her face as she passed Anthony his iced tea. "So, now that you've left the agency . . . are you going to hang around home and nag your poor old mum to death?" She sat down on the porch swing, crossing her legs. I swallowed a gulp of iced tea and darted a look at Anthony; he was pulling at a blade of grass.

"I don't know. It was about time I left Tanner and everything behind, though . . . after Melinda and Wonseo died . . . and that kid, the accident that Tanner blamed me for . . ." Lockwood shrugged. "I still want to be an agent, though. That dream hasn't died."

"A.J Lockwood and Company, isn't it?"

Anthony stayed cool and fiddled with the blade of grass. "Maybe, yeah."

"Your very own agency. Well, Tony, you'd better find agents to fill up the 'company' part quick, or it'll just be A.J Lockwood." His mother propped her feet up on a cushion and watched the clouds; I watched the dirt and a passing ant, feeling my neck prickle as Lockwood laughed again.

"I've already got Quill here. What else do I need?"

"What about that George boy?" Anthony's mother straightened and set her drink down with a small 'clink.' "He's brilliant, too. Told me all about the history of the Problem without a pause. And then chided me afterward for not knowing it as an agent," she added dryly.

"That's George." Lockwood agreed.

"George? Who's he?" I desperately switched the conversation from Lockwood's new agency.

"He applied to Fittes a few days ago. Mum was his examiner. Did he get in?" Anthony asked his mother.

"Of course he did, but I'm drawing out the wait to keep him on his toes." Mrs. Lockwood (she always insisted that I call her by her first name, but I shied away from it) directed her sharp gaze on me. "How do you feel about joining a new agency, Quill? Is it exciting?"

I flushed. Anthony's stare joined his mother's, and I felt a bead of sweat drop down my neck. Then I relented. No more secrets. "I . . . I didn't resign, Anthony," I admitted helplessly. "I'm still with Fittes."

"Not even after Melinda and Wonseo?" Anthony's expression didn't change; it was if he had expected this. Perfect Anthony Lockwood had expected no more from his cowardly sidekick, and for that . . . my hand itched to punch him. See if he'd be that smug with his nose caved in . . . but no. He was my friend, and besides, I'd probably end up breaking a knuckle while he and his fine bony nose got away unscathed. I held in a sigh.

"Not even."

"I'll leave this to you two boys," Anthony's mother said suddenly. "Tony, make sure to bring in the glasses. They'll be crawling with ants by morning if you don't." She swept off of the porch swing and vanished into the house without another word.

"Tanner got Melinda and Wonseo killed, Quill."

"We got that baby killed. Everyone makes mistakes."

"Melinda and Wonseo didn't die because of a _mistake!_"Anthony slammed his iced tea onto the wooden porch; the ice rattled against the sides. "If we'd gone in with them, they wouldn't have died! There were _four _Type Twos in there, Quill. Four. If we'd been there, we could have had one agent per ghost, plus one more. We would have made it unscathed. But because Tanner was too _cowardly"—_I winced at the word—"people died. I can't be on a team with a person like that. Not with a bloody selfish coward. People like that . . . they're disgusting."

My heart was pounding as I muttered: "Then I guess you wouldn't want me in your precious agency, anyway."

Anthony stared at me. "Quill?"

"See you around, _Tony." _I got up and left, leaving Anthony gazing after me, stunned.

Things were never the same after that.

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

**A/N: Of course, more things happen to get them to really **_**hate **_**each other, but now you know why Quill Kipps calls Lockwood "Tony." It was at first a mockery of his mother's nickname for him, and later on both the same mockery and a hurtful reminder of his mother's death. I just wanted to go over how they met, and how their friendship began to take a turn. And, of course, George.**


	2. The Death of Parents

**George Cubbins**

"Hey, Lockwood." George stopped beside the bus stop and watched Anthony Lockwood stretch on his toes, trying in vain to paste a sheet of paper on the poster board. "What are you . . . oooh, _almost_ got it there . . . just a _little _higher . . . from what Kipps tells me, you still haven't grown much."

"From a kid?" Lockwood gave a large jump and heroically smacked the paper right on the board. "Maybe not. But I still have time." He turned around and clapped George on the shoulder. "What are you doing out here?"

"Taking a walk. And getting doughnuts."

"Doughnuts? From where?"

"Arif's bakery." George craned his neck to the side and looked over Lockwood's shoulder at the paper behind him. "Looking for a partner operative, huh?"

"I can't exactly have a one-man agency," Lockwood replied, without even a hint of a blush on his cheeks. "If you see anyone that's interested, let me know." Then he strolled off again, that long coat flapping at his calves.

George would have forgotten the whole encounter entirely if he hadn't picked up the _hint _in Lockwood's voice. Or maybe he, George, was just hoping for one.

Not for the first time, he thought about Lockwood's bright personality and compared it to Quill's darker one, and wondered exactly _who _he'd be better off with.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Two weeks later**

George walked into his branch of the Fittes office one Monday morning to find it in a raucous. Papers flying every which way, agents rushing to-and-fro, and in the midst of it all was Quill Kipps, draped over his armchair and talking loudly. Bewildered but unwilling to show it, George halted a young agent in her path. "What's—"

"Sorry, can't stop, gotta go!" she cried, the packets in her arms bumping up and down as she ran. George, feeling more irritable, turned around and stopped someone he knew.

"Sibley—"

"Not now, George," the agent said in a rush. "I've got to get this report to the media—" And with that, he was gone.

"Oh, come over here, George," a familiar voice drawled. "You're looking so befuddled that I almost pity you."

George stalked over.

"Aren't we supposed to be sending out the teams? What's going on?" he demanded brusquely. Quill Kipps looked up at him lazily and sneered, waving away a hovering assistant.

"Haven't you heard, George-O? We lost two Fittes agents last night. The paperwork we have to do now is _astounding._" He gestured at the sheets stacked up on his desk.

"I didn't hear." He stared at Kipps, who seemed utterly unconcerned with the loss of life. "Who were they?"

"Some of our best," the leader sighed dramatically, slumping further in his chair. "Natalie and Robert Lockwood." He closed his eyes and then they shot open again, glaring at George, who was gaping at him. "Well? Don't you have something to do? Here, take some of these papers . . . I'm sure you can forge my signature . . ."

"Forget the bloody paperwork," George snapped. He turned on his heel and rushed back into the early morning fog.

He found him in the park after a scouring search that took hours. The fog had long since dissipated into the air, leaving golden sunshine in its place. A bird chirped warningly as George trod down the path.

Lockwood was on the splintered bench, his head in his hands, looking utterly defeated. He didn't move. He didn't speak as George sat down beside him.

"Hi, Lockwood," said George awkwardly. He took off his glasses and glanced at Lockwood, who, in his weak vision, was now blurred.

The boy didn't answer.

"I'm sorry about your loss." What a stupid thing to say. Of course he was sorry. But how, in any way, did it help? "Do you need anything?" He scrubbed at his glasses for a while, feeling his throat swell up, and then slipped them back on. He blinked hard. It occurred to him, suddenly, how alone Lockwood was now. He had nobody.

Nobody but George and a failing dream of a company that had no applicants to join. He'd seen the sign, fading and limp against the poster-board. Two weeks had washed it out completely.

"Ah . . . I don't need anything. Thanks. I'm fine." Lockwood lifted his head. George watched as this boy, his friend (yes, amazingly, he counted Lockwood as his _friend_) tried to smile at him brightly even as he wallowed in the loss of his parents. But it failed and broke down as Lockwood muttered again, "I'm fine," as if he were trying to convince himself.

And then Lockwood cried.

**A/N: I changed history a bit, which I probably will be doing a lot . . . (Lockwood's parents were psychic researchers, not Fittes agents, and George didn't meet Lockwood until a while after).**


	3. Golden Eyes Part 1

**This is an AU where Lucy and the rest aren't agents, and the Problem never happened. It's a world where technology and the older times mix. England has a king and a queen, and they reign supreme (like before the Prime Ministers). Also, the UK hasn't formed yet (although this is in the early 2000s). **

As London's oldest inn, The Blackbird was relatively (surprisingly) clean. The floors were swept, the steps leading to the rooms were labeled as thus, and the water that gushed out of rusting faucets was a clear blue rather than brown. Best of all, their food was said to be quite something. So as I sat at a table, illuminated by a swinging light bulb, examining a map, my chubbier companion 'oohed' and 'aahed' over their menu.

I rested a finger on the small star that marked London and then used another finger to travel the winding route that left the city and traveled across the country. I eventually stopped at another point, a good distance away from the start and in a whole other country besides, and tapped it for emphasis.

"It'll take two weeks to get to Glasgow, maybe more, maybe less, it all depends on how much Bert can take." I looked up from the map to see George rolling up tiny bread balls, seemingly bored as he scanned the crowded room. "George. Are you listening?"

"Yep."

"Good, because this is important."

George sniffed, seemingly unperturbed. "I did all that before we left _town._ You're just telling me what I already know . . . Oh, the stew!" Two bowls of beef stew were set down in front of us, hot and steaming. George picked up his spoon and then paused. "You won't be needing that map anyway. I've got the route memorized."

"Figures." I fiddled with my spoon, feeling uncomfortably warm and slightly nervous. Ahead of me I had a weeks-long journey to Glasgow, to start my schooling under the head of the best surgeon in both Scotland _and _England, and worst of all I had _George _along with me. At least the mule and I got along well . . . speaking of the mule . . . "George, did you feed Bert?"

The boy lifted his face away from the bowl and blinked his beady eyes at me, a piece of potato stuck to his lip. He seemed to mull it over as I stared, and then he finally said with a shrug: "Guess I forgot."

I glowered at him, this boy with his soup-stained clothing and drooping socks, coarse straw hair and _unbelievable _attitude—and coming from me, that was really something—and wondered again how I had gotten stuck with this boy, even though he was my mother's friend's son. On the way down here, he'd been complaining the whole way about how he'd been forced to leave his books behind. He was going with me to Scotland to study a bloody _lake monster. _Who'd need a book for that?

"If you keep on glaring like that, your eyes might get stuck that way," George commented idly. He scraped at the last of his soup and sucked thoughtfully on his spoon.

"George! You _didn't bother to feed our method of transportation?"_

"I thought I already said I didn't."

"I told you to!"

"Your face looks red. Could be twins with a tomato."

I shoved back my chair and threw my spoon down on the table. "I'm going to check up on Bert, since _someone _was unreliable."

"It's raining out," George said, his bored expression unchanged. "You'll need your coat. Last thing we need is for me to haul you, sick, all the way to Glasgow."

"Funny, for a moment I almost thought you cared," I said, as I strode away from the table. "Watch my things."

It was a relief to burst out of the steamy inn and out into the cool spring air. It was raining lightly, and it smelled like wet earth and blue sky. The wind slapped lightly against my face as I moved to the stables. Mud stuck the soles of my shoes to the ground, and each footstep brought a wet sticking sound.

Bert was in the very last stall, our small cart chained to a rack beside him. He gave his hoarse nicker, stretching out a thin neck to give me a death stare, one hoof shifting to stamp against the cold stone floor. _Where is my food?_ His dark eyes demanded.

I clambered onto a stool and hefted an armful of straw into his bin. "George was supposed to do this. Don't you blame me, okay?" I patted his nose.

A roll of the eyes and then Bert was attacking the straw, soft lips gently closing over the strands before sliding them into his mouth. A glance around the stall showed me that his water trough was empty as well; muttering under my breath, I filled a bucket with hose water and poured that in.

"That better?" I closed the stall door, thinking that if George didn't give a second thought about this animal then at least it would deepen that bond between Bert and I, when my peripheral vision caught the swift figure moving through the stable doors.

The mule continued his straw feast as I turned my head slightly. Was there someone else here to feed and water his or her own mode of transportation? If so, why the reason for secrecy?

Silence in the stables; I could almost think that I was alone. However, my hearing was keener than most (one of my sisters had jokingly called it my Talent with a capital T, as everyone came running to me when there was something hard to hear) and I caught the sound of rustling straw in the opposite corner. I walked softly past the many stalls, passing sleeping horses and donkeys, and stepped out from behind the last stall.

A black cloak, swirling fabric, a face covered by a large hood; we walked into each other at the same time, and let out guttural screams of surprise. I fell backwards against the wall; the other person tumbled into the pile of straw, arms flying out, the bundle of straw in its arms falling to the ground. As the person landed, his hood fell back, revealing sharp features and a brief flash of gold before the fabric was pulled back over his head.

I pulled myself to my feet, quietly trying to wrap my head around what I had seen. The person was hurriedly gathering another armful of straw, back to me. I patted my pouch, coins clinking, parchment rustling, and checked that the top was still tied shut. My acceptance letter to the Surgeon's University in Glasgow was in there. No hope for me if I lost it.

At last, I raised my head and cleared my throat. "Sorry for the surprise."

"No need to be sorry." His voice was definitely male, and as he swiveled, his face was still shrouded. "It was my fault too." He turned to walk out of the stables, straw and all.

"Where are you going with that straw?" I asked, darting a look at my watch. I'd been out for nearly twenty minutes. George was probably seated alone at our table, tearing off pieces of bread and wondering what was taking me so long. Served him right for leaving Bert in a state of starvation and dehydration.

"Silly as it sounds, my pillow tore on the way here, and I needed some stuffing. Straw is always the ticket to everything," he replied brightly through his . . . _hood_ . . . why wasn't he showing his face? Curious. Unless . . .

No. It couldn't be. Not here.

In the back of the stables, Bert gave his hoarse nicker; I clicked my tongue absently at him, and he fell silent. "You staying at The Blackbird?" I asked.

"Yes. See you there, maybe?" He didn't wait for an answer, just picked his way elegantly towards the inn, rain pelting the cloak and running sleekly down the black fabric.

He hadn't bothered to wait for an answer, so I didn't give him one. Instead, I turned around, grabbed my coat, and sloshed my way after him.

George was looking plenty irritated by the time I reached our table. "I've paid the bill."

I was already scanning the tabletop, brow furrowed. "My stew."

"It's missing, is it?" George snorted and slapped his hand down. "You took so long that I had it packaged. Thought maybe you were off traipsing through little muddy streams, building stick tepees—"

"I wasn't playing in the rain," I replied heatedly. I slid into my seat and fought the urge to look over my shoulder; the young man from the stables was at the table behind us, hood still on. Apparently this resisting took a while, because when I glanced back at George, he had an eyebrow raised. It was then that I realized that I had lapsed into silence for a few blank seconds. " . . . I was feeding Bert."

"Feeding the mule."

"Yes. Which was supposed to be _your—"_

"Why are you so interested in the person behind you?" the plump boy asked pointedly, spinning his fork by its tines. When I didn't answer, he sighed. "Please. Did you think I hadn't noticed? You were darting looks every five seconds, or at least trying _not _to . . . I'm not an idiot."

"Well, sometimes it seems hard to remember that." I muttered under my breath. A loud crashing sound came from the kitchen, making both of us jump; the fork in George's hand spun out onto the floor, clattering across the stones. Yelling ensued, and while everyone's attention was focused on the kitchen, I leaned forward across the table. George did as well.

"In the stables," I whispered, "His hood fell off for a moment. His eyes . . . they were gold."

We both sat back nonchalantly and scanned the room with keen eyes. The other travelers and locals alike were still watching the kitchen scene unfold; the head cook was now chasing a serving boy around with his spatula, bellowing at the tops of his lungs while the shattered pieces of good china (for VIPs, it was presumed) were swept up.

George looked back at me. "You're sure? Gold?"

"As sure as you are that the Loch Ness Monster really exists." I shifted in my seat. "I mean . . . it was only for a moment, but I saw."

"You know what that means."

"Of course I do."

"We can't get involved."

"I _know," _I hissed under my breath.

"We sleep here tonight and continue on tomorrow. No stops for anything, no side-trips, no adventures off into the wilderness to help a—" George broke off at the last moment, eyes wandering casually around the room (he really was quite the actor, when the time came). "Do you get what I'm saying? I know you."

"Not as well as I know myself," I said. "Just trust me, George."

He leaned back in his chair, eyeing me doubtfully, brushing at a few crumbs that littered his shirt like dandruff. Then he shrugged and placed a few coins on the table for our serving girl. "It's interesting, you know . . . why _London?"_

"Of all places in England," I agreed. We both gave each other similar looks of distant regret, and then headed off to find our rooms.

Or, at least, that was where we were going when The Blackbird burped three more wind-chilled people into the steamy room. I had a foot on the first step, George already huffing and puffing his way up ahead, when the sudden draft of cold across my skin made me pause. I looked around. I looked at the door. And then I froze.

Three Wolves stood in the doorway, gray uniforms glistening with rain, their dark caps pulled off politely to reveal scruffy wet hair underneath. One of them was a woman, slightly shorter than her fellows, and from the way the other two Wolves moved around her it seemed that she was in charge. I glanced from their faces to their belts, at the ropes and the guns and the occasional sabre or nightstick that hung there, and felt suddenly sick.

"Lucy. Lucy!"

George was calling to me in urgent whispers. I ignored him and stayed stock-still, letting my gaze drift across the room to the familiar hooded figure at his table. He seemed completely relaxed, one hand curled around a cup of tea, the other flicking through a battered local newspaper, but going by his whitened knuckles and the way that he hardly moved at all, he knew who the new people were. As did I. The Wolves were renowned as the nation's witch hunters (well, witches in general; other magic users also applied, like shifters, sirens, and the occasional wizard, although there were hardly any of those). Although the magic folk tended to blend in with normal human society, it made the Wolves' job a whole lot easier that magic users' eyes were . . . gold. I was the color of fairy dust, leprechaun droppings (they tended to collect those in pots and leave them at the ends of rainbows) and magic.

The Wolves were scanning the room as they strolled leisurely to an empty table; it was one right next to the hooded man's. I tensed.

All three sat down with many a screeching of chair legs. The cook, having calmed down after giving the serving boy a good thrashing, winced as he looked in their direction.

The hooded man cleared his throat suddenly and waved the serving boy over; he shook out a few coins and then stood up abruptly, fingers running over the rim of his hood.

"You there," a Wolf barked. It was the woman. She waved a hand in the air, smiling calmly; nothing seemed amiss. The other diners, having tensed at the sharp voice, relaxed and returned to their own meals and conversations. I, still hesitating at the stairway, took a step forward and stopped beside a potted plant.

The woman beckoned the hooded man over. "I'm Emma Doyle, leader of my Wolf squad. These dashing young men over here are some pups. I'm giving them a brief rundown on how things work in our group."

"Brilliant," the hooded man said dryly. "Why—"

"Please remove your hood."

I didn't bother glancing back at George. I just crossed the room in quick strides, heart in my head, as the hooded man stood frozen in the center of the room, the Wolf leader blinking innocently at him as her "pups" gaped.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" the young man asked at last.

"I asked you to remove your hood. It's the standard security check, to look at the eyes," Emma Doyle said crisply. "Follow up, please."

"I—"

The whole room was back to watching now; after this, The Blackbird would have quite the reputation for drama. Even the cook was staring, his potatoes burning in the pan.

"He's my brother," I blurted, running forward the last few steps. Behind me, George groaned massively. I whipped around to fling an arm around the young man, fingers bunching in the fabric. "What do you want?"

"Your brother?" the Wolf said incredulously. "Well, then, kindly ask him to—"

"He has a skin condition."

"It's terrible." George appeared at my side, face impassive. "All rotting and green and with oozing sores."

"We're taking him to the Surgeon's University in Scotland. They can do all sorts of skin grafting there," I added. "But it's pretty contagious now, so you'll want to stay a few tables away."

"I was just heading up to the room, actually," the young man said brightly. "My face was feeling itchy."

The Wolf sat back down, crossing her legs, a suspicious look crossing her face before fading away. "A facial condition? Then stay away from other people," she said briskly. "And get to that surgeon as fast as you can."

"Yes ma'am." The young man followed us up the stairs and onto the second floor, where we grouped in the hallway and let out a collective sigh of relief.

George immediately set onto me. "What were you _thinking?"_

"I wasn't," I admitted.

"As usual."

I slid the room key into the slot, opened the door, and we stepped inside, George locking it firmly behind us.

"You owe us one," I said, slumping into a puffy chair, coat and all. George did likewise, but in a different chair. The hooded young man remained standing. "One wrong move and our heads wouldn't be attached anymore."

"I thought it's usually hanging," George said thoughtfully. "That or burning at the stake."

"So you know, then?" the young man asked resignedly. He sat down on the edge of a bed. "It was rather clever, thinking up that disease on the spot."

George and I looked at each other. Then we nodded. We knew.

"Wouldn't it be funny if we were on to completely different things?" I said half-heartedly, propping my feet up on the side table. I was tired. It had been a long day of clattering around in a wooden cart, and now this. The bed was looking plenty comfortable now, all sheets and plush pillows . . .

Hands flew up, and then the young man was pushing back his hood. "On to different things? I don't think we are."

I thought I'd been prepared for it, but the sight still caught me off guard. Those golden eyes, bright and gleaming.

"We should be formally introduced." He held out a hand, and I focused long enough to shake it. The young man grinned, so bright it nearly lit up the whole room. "I'm Anthony Lockwood. You are?"


	4. Golden Eyes Part 2

The morning was chilly, though a faint mugginess hung in the air from yesterday's rain. Dewdrops were gathered on the splintered window frame; they quivered and dripped into my hair as I leaned farther out the window, catching a glimpse of rolling hills on the horizon. The Scotland-England border was beyond that, and it was said that the main traveling roads from both countries connected there into a giant hustle-and-bustle of humanity.

A faint noise came from behind me; it was the squeal of wood under heavy feet. There came the sound of loud chewing, and then George said, his words thick from banana bread: "Ready?"

"Yeah. Let me get my coat."

It was still early, the sun having risen not too long ago. George and I moved down the hall on silent feet, trying our best not to wake the other guests. A few were already up, nursing a cup of coffee or pulling on boots to trudge through the mud outside. I briefly scanned all the faces before turning away in disappointment.

Anthony Lockwood had left us abruptly last night, cloak swirling as he went to sleep in his own room. I hadn't even had the time to, as cliché as it sounded, say good-bye. Or even good night.

Well, too late now.

I heaved a mournful sigh and ran a hand through my hair. The rest of today would be hard. Very hard.

George set the room-key down at the front counter, and we pushed through the inn's swinging doors. I trailed after him as George marched over to the stables, looking like a raspberry dough-ball in his new red sweater-vest and scarf. This didn't stop him, however, from managing to heft up the wooden cart and attach it to Bert with a strength that belied his girth.

I idly fingered the leather pouch hanging at my side. It would be perhaps a half-hour before we could leave London behind us—

"Lucy." George's voice was low.

I looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. No words were said as he jerked his head slightly at something—or someone—behind my shoulder. We both paused, staring at each other, and then I slowly turned around.

The Wolf squad from last night was fast approaching, chains jingling, boots tromping, the sabers bouncing on their sides. They looked unconcerned, almost casual, as they marched across the puddled square. I swallowed hard.

They stopped before us in a clatter of metal and weapons. George and I stood firmly beside our mule, looking back at them with even expressions. A saber flashed in the morning light; Bert shifted uneasily on his hooves, and I patted his bony shoulder soothingly.

"Good morning." The head woman looked over our mule and rickety cart with a steely glance.

I stroked Bert again, telling myself that I was simply reassuring him, although it felt the other way around. It was easy to get anxious around the Wolves. They had this . . . _aura _of authority, this mental power that made you feel subservient in their presence. Made you feel weaker. Needless to say, I didn't like it.

I lifted my chin a little and looked the squad leader in the eye.

Where might you be headed?" she asked, a slight smile on her face. It eased me a bit. "A long journey, I'd suppose, going by your clothing and all the bags in the back."

I felt a prickle of interest run up my spine. So she wanted to play this game, did she? A bit of practice cat-and-mouse before the real thing.

"We're traveling to Glasgow," I recited. "Two weeks' travel if we push hard." I'd memorized bits and pieces of information for this job; a real pain, it had been, though George had excelled at it.

As I spoke, George made a small sound of denial in his throat; I glanced at him in irritation. "_What?" _

"It's one and a half weeks," he said blandly, using a cloth to wipe at his glasses. "I keep on telling you. One and a half weeks."

I rounded on him, back to the squad, exasperated beyond belief. "For _goodness _sake, George—"

"—What do you plan on doing in Glasgow?"

"Eh?" I looked over my shoulder at the squad leader; she had been quieting her untrained squad, who were letting out whoops of laughter (that I hadn't noticed until thus far) at the argument George and I were having. "What did you say?"

"What are you doing in Glasgow?"

"Oh . . ." I blinked, mind temporarily going blank, before saying in a rush, "I'm going to train at Surgeon's University."

She nodded her head sharply in approval. "Only the best and the most determined make it there . . . congratulations. I'd never have thought it, what with your _childish behavior and all."_

I bit my tongue to keep a comment from spilling out, and glowered at the sodden ground.

"What about your brother? He is supposed to be traveling with you," the squad leader said in layered undertones.

I paused, heart pounding. Anthony Lockwood. My pretend brother. I'd almost completely forgotten about him.

Yes, where _was _he?

If I blew the cover now . . .

"Our brother?" George pushed his glasses farther up his nose, eyes at their blandest as he stared at the squad leader. "He's . . ."

My eyes darted instinctively across the square; to my surprise, I saw a cloaked form step outside of the inn. "He's right over there," I said in relief.

Four pairs of eyes followed my pointing finger. Anthony, as if sensing the attention he was receiving, turned his head and went stock-still. I looked at my own finger and realized how this must seem to him: George and I standing with the Wolves, me gesturing at him as if I were pointing him out . . . he'd think that we were turning him over.

My stomach roiled.

I turned the point into a small, urgent wave. "Anthony, over here!"

He didn't move.

"Come on, _brother . . ."_

He seemed to catch on, because a hesitant pause later he was crossing the square towards us. His hood was still on. Another moment and then he bowed slightly, elegantly, cloak fluttering around him. "Good morning."

The squad leader's head tilted so far to the side that I thought her neck would snap and the head itself would go rolling across the cobblestones like a bowling ball. Then the neck straightened, the head firm in its position between both shoulders, and she nodded. "Nice young people, all of you. I'm glad we got to talk. Travel safely."

Then the Wolves stepped to the side, caps jaunty on their heads, pristine gray uniforms dull under the sun . . . to watch us clatter out onto the road.

So what was left for us to do?

"In the back, Anthony," I muttered. "We'll talk later."

"All right." Anthony Lockwood tossed his things into the back of the cart and swung in after them, face unseen underneath his hood. George and I sat on the front cart seat. I gathered Bert's reins into my hand, flicked once, and we were off.

The Wolves' hard eyes followed us out, and I stifled a shiver.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

I swiveled around in my seat as the Blackbird Inn grew smaller and smaller in the distance; when it was a small smudge at the furthest point by the road, I faced the front again and let loose a low breath.

"That was close." George was rummaging through his pack, eyebrows knotted together. He pulled out an apple and crunched thoughtfully into it. "What did you have to go and point him out for?"

"Spur of the moment thing. And they would have caught him later, anyway, and asked him why he wasn't with us . . . plus, you were grasping for a proper lie.

"Now shut up, George, and let me think." I wasn't in the mood to bicker. I was tired, hungry, and we had to drag around a magic-user for miles. It sort of made me long for an apple myself.

"I'm back here, you know." The young man in question leaned between us, elbows propped on the wooden rim separating the front seat and the cart. "You can just drop me off at the edge of that wood. I'll be fine." As he spoke, he pushed back his hood, revealing again those telltale golden eyes.

"Be fine? I don't think so." Surprisingly, it was George who spoke out this time. It was usually me, not _him._ He chucked his apple core into a nearby shrub and burped loudly; I winced. "What are you, fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Same age as us, then . . ." George dug another apple out. Teeth crunched into sweet yellow flesh; juice leaked down the side of his hand. "We're headed for Glasgow. You can still pose as a sibling. Maybe Lucy's blind fraternal twin; she's too ugly to be identical, gender differences aside."

Surprised at George's uncharacteristic generosity, so much that I paid no mind to the insult, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "We're taking him—sorry, you—with us? All the way to Scotland? George, are you _insane?_"

"Maybe."

"_Maybe_—" I didn't mean to object so strongly to Anthony's addition to our group—I wasn't supposed to, it could endanger everything—but the fact that George had taken the stage this time surprised me. Maybe he did have a bit of a soft heart in there after all. Who was I to judge him? Wasn't it the inside, not the outside, that mattered?

"I mean . . . what's with the change of heart?" I finally asked, feeling a bit ashamed.

"No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another," George replied casually. He took another bite of apple, spraying me with the juice. I glowered at him and wiped it off my cheek.

"I don't get it."

"Unsurprisingly. That was a quote from Charles Dickens." George flicked his apple core to the side of the road. It bounced once, twice, before settling into the dust. I raised a finger.

"Okay. Who stole the real George and replaced you with him?"

George yawned. "You're just covering up the fact that you don't know who Dickens _is."_

"I do too!"

"What _I _want to know," Anthony butted in, "is if I can really come with you to Scotland."

A long, drawn-out pause ensued. Even my fierce glare faded. George and I glanced at each other uncomfortably.

"I'll take that as a yes."

I didn't argue, George kept on eating his apples, and Anthony settled in for a long journey. He was coming with us.

It would actually be a shorter ride than planned.

0o0o0o0o0o

We had passed through the wood and further by midday. Bert was already tiring, head hung low as I led him over to a creek to drink. Anthony hopped out of the cart and followed, his footsteps crunching on the dry grass.

I sat down by the water, letting Bert's leash drop from my fingers, and pulled a brown paper bag out of my pack. "You should eat now, because it's easier to swallow when you're not rattling around in a cart. Sorry, by the way, for the rough ride. The road gets smoother a little further on."

"I'll take your word for it," Anthony said with a smile. I split the sandwich in half and passed one side to him; he quietly took it, and we ate together. George was still seated on our cart, eyeing the road as he watched our possessions at the same time.

"So . . . Anthony . . ."

"You can call me Lockwood." He glanced sideways at me, that small smile still on his lips, and I couldn't help but smile back. It was an odd charisma that he had, much like the Wolves with their authority, but in a better sense. A happier sense.

"Sometimes it fits me," Anthony continued, "and sometimes it doesn't. In this case, it does."

"All right then."

We ate our sandwiches in a comfortable silence. However, as I chewed on the dry bread, I began to feel a mounting tension in the air. I looked at the clear stream, glanced at the blue sky, took a sip of water . . . nothing helped. Finally, I swallowed and then spoke. "Lockwood—"

"—did you help me?" Lockwood paused, grinned. "We spoke at the same time."

"You go first."

"_Ladies_ first. I insist."

"I'm certainly no lady," I retorted through a mouthful of ham. "Anyway, I said it first. You go."

Lockwood shrugged his bony shoulders. "Thank you for helping me back there at the inn . . . you didn't have to. If you were caught, you know the consequences."

"Fifteen years in the Tower of London," I recited mechanically. Then I looked down at my sandwich and frowned slightly. "I actually know it better than you'd think."

"Government-minding parents, huh?"

"Something of the sort."

"Anyway, Lucy, why? Why did you help me?" He seemed genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly as he considered me. Like he could see right through me, to the hardened core. I stiffened.

"I need to know," he insisted.

I lifted one shoulder and let it slump back down. "Does there need to be a reason? Maybe I just wanted to help you."

"You certainly chose the right time to help out," Lockwood said with a chuckle. "Thank you, Lucy. You saved my life. I'll always remember it."

"What am I supposed to say to _that_?" I muttered with a slight scowl. I looked away at the grass, cheeks flushing.

He flapped a hand at me. "Don't you interrupt. It's a touching moment."

I scoffed, but a sick feeling began to grow. I had to stop him from talking. Now. He couldn't—

"Lucy . . . It's good to know that there are people like you out there."

Instead of glowing from the praise, I set my sandwich aside and looked up at the blue sky. I wished I could float up, be one of those clouds. Carefree. Unknowing. Unburdened. I sighed.

_You saved my life._

He was a magic-user. He was just going to die soon anyway. The nauseous feeling grew.

What was the point of saving him, then? Giving him false hope? It was all so cruel. Too cruel.

What was I _becoming_? I looked at my hands in wonder, as if trying to see the hairy monster underneath. What had turned me this way? I hadn't been this heartless before . . . was this heartless? Was I heartless?

_Yes, _a voice inside of me whispered. _Yes, you are. You've always known it, but you've ignored it. _

"Lucy?"

I looked back up at him, at those soft brown eyes. He was a good man. Kind. He didn't deserve the fate that most of his kind received, I could tell that already. In another time, in another life, we could have been friends.

The bread and ham I had just eaten seemed to weigh in my stomach. George sat up straight on the cart behind us, hands fumbling inside his coat pocket. We didn't have much time.

Something suddenly struck me. "Lockwood. You're a magic-user. What can you do?"

"Well . . . all sorts of things. But before my mum . . . erm . . ." He tugged up a fistful of grass and played with it for a moment, lips drawn tight. Then he spoke again. "Before my mum got taken, she used to tell me that my specialty was drawing out hidden feelings. She'd always keep me away when the milkman came, because when I was around she'd start acting odd around him. Hidden love," he explained quietly. He cleared his throat. "I can also do telekinesis . . . it's weak in me, though . . . and some other things I haven't discovered yet. Why d'you ask?"

Hidden feelings. I swallowed hard, wrapped my arms around my knees, and tried to make myself hard again. _Make yourself hard, don't let that magic in, it'll make you soft and that'll only make things harder—hidden feelings . . . _

_It's good to know that there are people like you out there._

"I'm sorry, Lockwood," I blurted out in a croaking voice. He looked back at me, eyes absent, as I bolted upright, looking to the side, at the cart. George had the whistle out; he cocked his head at me, and then slowly began raising it to his lips.

"Sorry? For what?" Lockwood brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes and looked at me like he really didn't know. Made it all the harder for me. "Lucy?"

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you'll hate me and I know, but I'm _sorry . . .

The whistle blew.


	5. Golden Eyes Part 3

That was the signal.

_I'm sorry, Lockwood. Sorry . . . for all this, and for what I'm about to do._

But that's life, isn't it? You trust. You're betrayed. And if that naïve trust fills someone else's pocket, _well _then . . . who else is there to blame but you?

No one.

I balled up a fist, glanced at Lockwood out of the corner of my eye. _I'm sorry, so sorry—and wait a minute. _Just as I paused, the emotion bubbled back up again._ Don't want to do this, I'm sorry . . . no, something's wrong—sorry, sorry—aaarrghh!_

"Lockwood!" I said, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around to face me; the glower that was fixed on my face sent his eyebrow on a trip up his forehead. However, before he could speak, I cut in. "You're _influencing my emotions_. Can you stop it?"

"Sorry. I'll try to." He closed his eyes briefly.

That soft, apologetic voice in my head died immediately. I sighed a little in relief. "Thanks. It was getting on my nerves . . ." And with that done, my 'hidden emotions' tucked away once more, there was one final job . . .

I stood up abruptly. Lockwood did as well. "Are we moving off already?" He brushed off his coat with practiced expertise. "Well, thank you for the lunch—"

A sharp roundhouse kick to the side sent him staggering. A hard punch to the face brought him down, clutching at his eye. Though stunned and winded, his right eye beginning to purple, the young man immediately began to move in order to fight or take flight—such is as human nature. He rolled over onto his back, sucked in a deep breath, and looked up.

The cold tip of a rapier touched his throat.

I smiled grimly. "I _did _say I was sorry. Now, turn back over. I need to handcuff you."

Now that the scam was just about over, I dropped the local accent I was using and let the Cockney one bleed through; Lockwood seemed even more flabbergasted, if that were possible. He lay there limply, unmoving, golden eyes staring into dark brown—and then he laughed harshly. It was a sudden sound, full of bitterness, and the rapier in my hand twitched instinctively; a drop of blood welled up on his neck and stained the tip of the weapon maroon.

"It was all fake, wasn't it?" Lockwood said in a flat tone. "A ploy in order to catch me. I'd assume that you and George are Wolves."

"It _was _a ploy, but George and I aren't Wolves. We're a squad's undercover operatives. Minimum wage, the dirty work, etc." I kept the rapier pointed at his throat as George came tromping through the thick undergrowth.

"So you're not going to Scotland, are you? That was all untrue?" He didn't seem at all angry, just limp and tired and disappointed.

"No, I'm not. And then yes."

He met my gaze again and shook his head from side-to-side, almost imperceptibly, as if in shame for me. His golden eyes then sharpened on the rapier at his neck, and I felt a wave of guilt. _Darn it. I can't tell . . . is he manipulating me again? Bloody magic-users. _

"What's the going price for a magic-user these days, then?" Lockwood was asking sarcastically, as if he were prodding a stubborn grocer for the lowered price of tomatoes or a bag of corn. "600 pounds? 800?"

"800 pounds? Don't be so full of yourself," I snorted; a moment later I wasn't feeling so teasing. The queasy feeling had returned again. I casually brushed my hand against my forehead, as if tucking away a few loose strands of hair, and then returned it to my side. Nope. Forehead wasn't that warm. So, no fever. So, it was something else. So, I had no idea what was wrong with me.

I swallowed lightly and said at last, " It's 500 pounds per user."

"All that only for me to be executed at the end of the road." Anthony Lockwood shook his head again, never turning his gaze away from me. "You know, I trusted you."

"I know. Now, the handcuffs—"

"Why did you save me from the Wolves back at the inn, if you were only going to bring me back again?"

I paused. "You ask too many questions."

"Ever since when was that a fault in a person?" Lockwood smiled charmingly, and I could almost forget that he was a being of menace, that his kind had tried to overthrow the English monarchy. How could he be a danger to anything? We'd been getting along fine just before . . . I actually liked him quite a bit. Why was I doing this? I should free him, let him go—

"You're manipulatingmy feelings again," I said accusingly, the realization breaking through like an icy wave. "I'm not stupid, you know. Didn't you just tell me a story about your mother and the milkman? Your special powers?"

Lockwood's nonchalant expression didn't change, and it infuriated me even more. He cocked his head slightly to the side and then stared up at the blue sky with distant eyes. He didn't say anything. Something burned deep inside me, and then I heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Fine. You want to know why?" I said at last. "You want to know why we didn't sell you out before?

"The Wolves work in squads ranging from three to ten. When a magic-user is brought in, the leader of the squad that did it disperses the share. As they're only paid for each user they catch, the competition is tough. It was hard, trying to capture you and keep you away from the other squads at the same time," I said. "There're loads of squads that are currently active in London. George and I are non-Wolf operatives in part of the joint East End and Dambridge one, which is—" I broke off and glared at Lockwood, simmering anger rising. "You did it again. You manipulated me; that's the _third _time!"

"The third time you _noticed, _you mean," Lockwood said with a small smile and a wink. "How did you notice, by the way?"

"I don't normally ramble on like that!"

"I thought it was quite nice. And hey, if you got a little chattier, then so what? No harm done, really."

"_No harm done? _You just about controlled my bloody _vocal cords—"_

"I know you two want to fight it out a bit, but we're on a schedule," George said blandly. He tapped his watch for emphasis. "We're expected at three."

Glowering, I lowered my rapier. George began unceremoniously hefting Lockwood to his feet. He took a step forward and slid out of his grasp, shoulders stiffening. "I can do it myself."

And with that, George and I cautiously on either side, we led Lockwood to the cart.

"Hands out, please." George slid a pair of handcuffs from his bag and nodded at Lockwood. "They're iron, so you won't be able to try anything funny."

It's well known that iron binds the powers of a magic-user. Something about the metal saps the magic, renders the user into a powerless, ordinary . . . person. These were the cuffs that we had on hand at all times, along with the occasional iron chains.

George suddenly grumbled something under his breath. "The links are caught . . . probably because _somebody _didn't remember not to put the yarn in with the cuffs."

A crack somewhere off among the trees; one hand still firmly on Lockwood's shoulder, I glanced off to the side, too distracted to pay attention to George's jibes. "Did you hear that?"

George looked up. "No."

"Maybe just a branch falling," I said uneasily.

George continued grappling with the handcuffs.

I shifted from foot to foot, dried leaves crunching under my boots, and breathed in sweet forest air. This was really quite a beautiful place, with golden sunshine streaming in between the trees; pity we were here for so short a time.

Another queasy feeling struck, and at the same time a crack rang throughout the forest. I whipped my head to stare at Lockwood; he glanced back, face expressionless, but I swear I saw a faint smile playing on his lips.

"George."

"Yeah?" the plump boy muttered, wrenching hard at the cuffs. "What?"

"Leave the cuffs. Let's go."

"But—"

"_Now."_

George rolled his eyes. "Lucy, it's noth—"

Another crack sounded, but it was louder this time, so loud that it stopped George midsentence. He paused. I paused. We both turned our heads slowly and stared suspiciously at Lockwood.

And then several things happened all at once.

**0o0o0o0o0o**

**A/N: I take off for vacation tomorrow, so an update soon is unlikely. In the meantime, I'll just leave you, your imagination, and this cliffhanger together to stew for a while. **

**In case my writing was seriously bad in this chapter and you didn't understand, Lucy and George work for a Wolf squad in London. They go around undercover and lure magic-users out of hiding in order to capture them and take them back to the squad to be executed. Poor Lockwood . . . **


End file.
